


The Return

by downdeepinside



Series: The Mind's Betrayal [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Instability, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's back, Still can't tag to save my life, Though I'm only hinting at it for the moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised, Sherlock does return to John, but he still isn't the man John had been waiting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return

**Author's Note:**

> This has not been beta'd and all mistakes (which I fear there may be a few) are therefore mine. While this work can stand alone, you may want to read the previous work 'Wedding Vows' first.

Since the death of Sherlock Holmes 99% of John Watson’s dreams revolve around the late detective. Of this 99%, around 56% consist of nightmares involving far too much blood and not enough anything else. While it varies, John’s nightmares of Sherlock’s fall are often the same. Unlike the events of the war, his mind doesn’t feel any need to merge the war with other horrific events that never really happened. No, the events of that blasted day were bad enough. Unfortunately for John, while his mind doesn’t feel the need to add any details to this particular reality of a nightmare, it does a brilliant job at keeping all the real details in perfect condition. His mind doesn’t shy away from Sherlock’s last words, the way his voice cracked ever so slightly, the way the world seemed to slow as he plummeted to the pavement, the way his eyes (his beautiful, omniscient eyes) suddenly became blank, and the way his body hung limp as it was shifted to the gurney. And of course his mind doesn’t need to remind John of the completely devastating feeling of loss, and failure, and helplessness. 

John had, over the years, grown accustom to being in a position of powerlessness when it came to the great super nova that was Sherlock, but never before had it felt so palpable as when the man started to fall and John didn’t have a say in any of it. Because, John could have convinced him not to, couldn’t he? If anyone could have it was John, he knew it. He also knew that it was this particular trait that made Sherlock so unlikely to let him get a word in.

Sherlock had been forced to jump. He didn’t have a choice in the matter.

On the day of the jump (478 days ago) John had been sure of only two things. One, his life was as good as over now the core of his world, the main pull of everything in his life, the centre point of it all, was gone. Two, Sherlock had not chosen to jump. Sherlock was a madman, but he was not literally mad. He was not insane, or unstable (well, any more than the obvious) and he most certainly was not likely to end his life in an act of futility. (Not to mention the ring. The damn ring.)

On the day after the jump (477 days ago) John was forced, too. He was forced to make a decision. Either he could let himself be beaten, he could give up and he could surrender to that first fact, spiralling into depression as much of the world seemed to expect him to, or he could get up and fight some more. John was a soldier. He’d never been one to turn down a fight.

(What had Miss Adler’s phrase been? ‘Know when you’re beaten’? Well, John Watson certainly hadn’t been beaten yet.)

Over the following months it became John’s obsession not letting the dead stay dead.  The man dragged his torn and bleeding heart through the dirt day after day in pursuit of some kind of answer. He needed to know why Sherlock had jumped, he needed to know exactly who was to blame (Moriarty, of course, that was set in stone, but the man rarely worked alone) and he needed, most of all, revenge.

John had worked with the consulting detective for two years. He’d picked up a few tricks of the trade.

It was John’s quest for justice that caused the other 44% of his dreams about Sherlock. The more John delved into Moriarty’s syndicate, the more he became aware of just how painfully _stupid_ they all were. Moriarty, it seemed, was not only the main brain behind the organisation, but the only brain. It was as John delved further into Moriarty’s crumbling organisation (Moriarty had been the brain of the crime organisation, without a brain the muscle and the bones and all the structure of the organisation had slowly begun to crash in on itself, the heart forgetting how to beat and the joints forgetting how to stay connected) that he realised not only how incompetent Moriarty’s organisation was, but also how easy they would be to fool; if one found themselves in the position where they needed to fool them.

Sherlock was certainly in a position where he might need to fool them, wasn’t he?

The other 44% of John’s dreams were certainly that, dreams. They were sweet and pure and somehow even more painful than the nightmares. In the dreams, Sherlock returned to John. In the dreams, it was all a ruse. Sherlock walked back into Baker Street (John never did leave, despite how often he was told he should) and he smiled that smile – that brilliant knowing smile – and John punched him, and then they laughed, and then they kissed, and then it was all over. Sherlock was back and he was as marvellous as ever and John was constantly irritated by the toes in the fridge, and Sherlock constantly irritated by John’s inability to understand the most simple of facts, but it was them. And it was love.

And it was all a lie.

The mind can be an amazing thing, can’t it? The mind can cling on to the tiniest of details. It can give you the ability to remember perfectly an event that occurred 478 days ago, it can imagine the most wonderfully devastating things for you, and it can enable you to see things.

See things that aren’t real.

Sometimes, you can even feel them.

Or, not.

Sometimes, you can’t feel a pulse, when there is one. Or you can’t see a truck that’s right in front of you. Or you think a man’s dead when really, he isn’t.

Since the death of Sherlock Holmes 99% of John Watsons’s dreams have revolved around the late detective. Of these dreams, 44% revolved around the possibility of the detective returning to his loyal doctor, blogger, and partner.

Almost 479 days after the detective died, this dream came true.

\--

John had been in the kitchen when his life was turned upside down for the fourth time in the past decade (being sent home from Afghanistan, meeting Sherlock, watching Sherlock die). The kettle had just boiled and he’d just poured away the second cup of tea (black, two sugars, damn Sherlock).

Really, given how momentous the event was it was surprisingly anticlimactic.

There was a knock at the door. John wasn’t expecting visitors, but he still remained hopeful that one of Moriarty’s men would come round one day and kill him, finishing the job Sherlock himself started that day on the roof. Time didn’t slow down as he opened the door, nor did dramatic music play as he locked eyes with the dead man standing at the top of the stairs.

Instead the two men stared at each other, each equally terrified of making the first move. In the end it was Sherlock, Sherlock always broke first.

 “John. I- John I’m so sorry please I-”

John held up a hand to silence the detective, before stepping back into the flat and waving the same hand to beckon the man inside. When Sherlock made no move to enter John let out an irritated huff of air and found his voice, “Look, I’m about 80% certain I’m currently dreaming, but if I’m not then you might as well be warm while I bloody pummel you to death.” Sherlock gave a small awkward nod before stepping in, staring at John with impossibly wide eyes that seemed unable to decide which colour they were going to be that day.

Never before had the click of 221B’s latch sounded so loud and so permanent. Sherlock took a large gulp of the air before speaking again.

“I feel I may owe you an explanation.”

It took everything John had to resist the urge to burst out laughing. Instead he simply snorted and raised an eyebrow, before saying: “I know about the snipers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened further at that before he became aware of how obvious his emotions were and pulled down the curtains that blocked the world’s view of his heart. He cleared his throat and nodded, “Tea?”

“I’ve already thrown yours out.”

The two stared at each other again, the palpable silence stretching out between them as John clenched his fists tightly and allowed himself to get a proper look at the man in front of him. Sherlock had got thinner, his previously emaciated form now needle-thin. His cheeks were sunken-in; his pale face was now coloured with large dark circles under his eyes from god knows how many nights without sleep, and a large (clearly recent) scar ran from his right ear down to his chin. He was still wearing the same damn coat, the lapels tatty and scuffed at the edges and several buttons were missing, leaving only one hanging on by a miniscule thread. There were finger bruises around Sherlock’s neck and John _really_ didn’t want to think about the parts of Sherlock body that he could see.

“You… John are you alright?”

That time John did laugh, hysterically and too loudly and like a madman.  He keeled over as the air was knocked out of him and tears streamed down his face, he didn’t even notice Sherlock’s hands on his back until he calmed down minutes later. It was the feeling of Sherlock’s hands that snapped him out of it. “I can feel you. Your hands. This is actually happening, isn’t it?”

“John?”

“No. No, never- I-” Shaking off Sherlock’s hands, John took a step away before walking into the kitchen, aware of the dead man following his footsteps. The kettle was once again flicked on and Sherlock took up to opportunity to talk properly.

“You… First of all John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this really, _really_ wasn’t meant to be so long in coming. I wanted to tell you straight away. You weren’t meant to be there, you weren’t meant to see it but… It was a miscalculation. A major miscalculation. I’m sorry, for that.” Sherlock paused, taking in a long shaky breath as John sat down and placed two mugs on the stained kitchen table. “You said you know about the snipers?”

John gave a curt nod of his head, “Your life for my, Mrs Hudson’s and Lestrade’s safety. There was some sort of code to call it off. Moriarty died and, I assume, you didn’t know it.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair (now much longer than before, hanging down and sticking to his face in odd places, it’d been raining outside and Sherlock never had been one to use an umbrella) before continuing. “I needed to feign death so I could keep you all safe. Then, once I was dead, it still wasn’t safe. I had worked out the code hours after my supposed death but it was too late for that. I’d angered them, Moriarty’s people. They blamed me for his death and, if they heard I was alive, that would be it. They weren’t interested in playing games; they’d shoot me, you, anyone. Anything to get to me. So, I stayed dead.”

“You’re the reason the organisation’s falling apart.” It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock supplied a feeble ‘yes’ in answer anyway. “I thought it was because they were too stupid to survive without him, but it was you, wasn’t it? They weren’t stupid; they were merely more stupid than you.”

“You’ve been looking into it?”

John ignored Sherlock’s question, continuing to talk as the pieces slipped into place “All this time. All this time I’ve been following you and trying to find a way to work with you, work with the chaos and bring down Moriarty’s legacy for good. All this time it’s been you. I’ve been so close, all this time?”

The detective reached out a skeletal hand and pulled out the nearest kitchen chair, slowly sitting down and reaching for his tea. He didn’t take a sip but cradled its warmth gratefully. “The loss of Moriarty was bad, but it was never going to be enough to end everything he’d been working on. He left five men who all believed themselves capable of leading the organisation. I needed to turn them all against each other to bring down the whole organisation. I thought if I turned them against each other then it’s be over. Five men, that everyone looks up to, arguing. I was sure that soon enough the entire structure would deteriorate beyond recognition. That was…”

It took John a moment to realise Sherlock had simply stopped talking and he looked up from his tea to see the man staring down at his hands eyes wide in fear once again and whole body trembling.  “Sherlock?” No response ensued and John jumped up from his chair, kneeling beside his partner and lightly gripping his arm. “Hey, Sherlock, are you still there?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears and failing miserably. “I’m so sorry John. So, so sorry.” There was the slight tremble in his voice again and he sounded more broken than John thought was really possible.

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me now. Can you look at me?” Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened and he watched John nervously, his expression something between extreme anxiety and extreme annoyance. “We don’t have to talk about this now, alright? It’s fine.”

“No it’s not!” Sherlock stood up quickly and John flinched back. His apology now filled with loathing only aimed at himself. “I’m sorry, John. This is all my fault. I- _I’m_ the one who left! I’m the one who messed up! I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be like this!” he paused and let out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You’re meant to be upset John. I left you, and this isn’t right.”

“No,” John agreed, folding his arms to resist the urge to envelope the other man in a giant bear hug. “No it’s not right, Sherlock. And of course I’m bloody upset – in fact I’d really love to punch you in the face right now.  But I won’t. And it can wait, yeah? We can talk later and… to be honest I’d just really love to kiss you right now and forget the past year and a half. Does that sound okay?”

“I don’t like talking about it.”

“I don’t think I’ll really like hearing about it, either.” John forced a small smile and extended his arms awkwardly like a child, Sherlock seemed only too glad to collapse against him, tightly wrapping his arms around the shorter man and sniffing pathetically. John slowly pulled Sherlock down to the floor and tucked the taller man into an inexplicably small space, head tucked under his chin and legs artlessly thrown over his own. The two stayed in the same spot on the kitchen floor for minutes, or perhaps it was hours, a silence stretching between them that was no longer suffocating but comfortingly normal, for them at least.

\--

The first day, or what was left of it, passed in quiet bliss. Nothing is even slightly normal or okay, but the two men stay true to their British heritage by simply smiling, drinking tea, and carrying on. Evening merges into night and the two find themselves in bed, underneath sticky covers and exhausted from a year and three months apart. John falls asleep quickly, which is hardly a rare event, and Sherlock after a few hours of restlessly tossing and turning in bed (even his previous favourite past time, watching John provided little comfort now) gave up and padded down the stairs in hunt of a good book and some water (while tea isn’t known for its high caffeine content he still didn’t need help with his current insomnia).

The night seemed to last an eternity as Sherlock was forced to wander his aging and broken mind palace when his search for a good book came up fruitless. It was in this state, hunched up in John’s arm chair staring into space, that John found Sherlock the next morning. Nothing rare about that, what was rare, however, was Sherlock’s vacant stare. While he normally seemed so deep in thought he now seemed simply withdrawn, not really there at all. John, who had wandered downstairs fearing that Sherlock’s return really had been a dream after all, remained doubtful that Sherlock wasn’t actually a figment of his imagination until he lightly brushed the other’s shoulder and whispered a gentle good morning.

Sherlock was snapped sharply out of his thoughts and dumped back into the real world unkindly as he looked back up to John’s sleep ruffled form. He flinched before forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes at all, “Ah, good morning, John. I trust you slept well?”

John frowned and perched on the coffee table (furniture was rarely used for it’s actual purpose in 221B) “Have you been down here all night?”

Sherlock glanced over Jon’s left shoulder and shrugged, the two were becoming increasingly good at ignoring the others questions. “You wanted to talk, yes? I assume you have questions?”

John emitted a small groan and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine, fine. I’m just going to shower, okay? You could make some tea?”

He took Sherlock’s silence as a yes and sighed, wandering back up the stairs in search of a clean towel, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts again. To his credit, Sherlock did manage to make it into the kitchen and even flick on the kettle before his thoughts became too interesting and were favoured over the mind numbingly simple act of placing two tea bags in two separate mugs.

It occurred to Sherlock he’d just practically given John a free pass to ask any questions he has about the past 15 months of his life.

It also occurred to Sherlock that he really didn’t want to answer most of those questions.

It wasn’t that Sherlock was ashamed of the past year and three months, it wasn’t that he felt self-loathing every time he thought about the number of times he miscalculated things and lost to idiots with far inferior minds, it was more that he worried John would be ashamed, and that John would loathe him. Sherlock wasn’t ashamed, but he certainly wasn’t proud. His first mistake, of course, had been leaving John behind. How could he ever have thought he’d survive without John? Unfortunately, leaving John behind hadn’t been the worst of his decisions.

No, the worst decision he made had to be deciding to set up his very own murder scene, framing several people. On second thoughts, it might have been allowing himself to get kidnapped without fully thinking through his escape plan. Or it could be the time he found himself in a life and death situation and had to-

No. No. Delete. Delete. _Delete._

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock span round from his position hovering near the open fridge door and stared at John blankly for a moment before forcing a smile and grabbing the milk as if that had always been his intention.  He willed his trembling hands to still before quickly finished the tea before sitting down at the table a little too quickly. If John noticed anything strange about the whole ordeal, he remained silent on the matter, rubbing a towel through his damp hair before sitting down and nodding a small thanks as he blew on his tea.

Sherlock traced a burn mark on the kitchen table absent before looking up and meeting John’s eyes, his heart practically freezing at the look in the other man’s eyes.  Love. Unadulterated love, an expression Sherlock was not used to seeing anymore. An expression he’d missed far too much. “What-” his throat felt sandpaper dry and his licked his lips to no avail, “What would you like to know?”

John frowned, his eyes wandering down the face of the man before him. “Everything, Sherlock. I want to know everything.”

“Of course.” Sherlock liced his dry lips once again before taking in a shaky breath and talking, quietly and quickly. “I suppose I’ll start from the roof, then. I knew Moriarty had something planned and after the events at the pool… I was more than willing to let you leave. I didn’t want him using you against me again. My plan didn’t exactly work quite as I’d hoped in that respect. He told me about the snipers, which you of course already know about. I worked out there was a code to call them off and so he shot himself. Killed the secret with him, and leaving me with no choice but to jump. With a little help from Molly Hooper and Doctor Stapleton – you remember her? From Baskerville? – anyway, with a little help from both of them I was able to fake my death.

I had hoped Moriarty’s organisation would crumble without him, unfortunately it turned out he’d been prepared for every eventuality. He left not one, but five different men in charge. Unbeknown to him, the men weren’t exactly the best of friends. Their working relationship was fragile and I decided the way to ruin the whole organisation, ensuring your safety and allowing me to return to the land of the living as quietly as possible, was to tear apart that partnership.

With the help of my brother it was arranged for one of the men, Jonathan Wood, to be executed with certain clues left around suggesting he had been murdered by one of his colleagues. The men turned against each other, all worried for their own lives. After… months of bloodshed and help from myself - playing an anonymous adviser - three more died. Only one man remained. This was where things started to… er, this was where the shit hit to fan. So to speak.

Sebastian Moran, the man remaining, I underestimated him. I planned to confront him and lure him into my trap, having him arrested and leaving him for the police or the government to deal with as they wish. He wouldn’t play the game. It turned out him and Moriarty had been more than work buddies and so when he saw me alive and kicking as his boss lay dead underground, he somewhat lost it. He used whatever pulls he still had in the world of crime to have me kidnapped and…” Sherlock trailed off again, blowing a breath through his nose and closing his eyes briefly. He took a small sip of tea and finished his story at breakneck speed. “I escaped. Eventually. Moran died and I went into hiding, once again with my brother’s assistance. The remains of what had once been Moriarty’s crime web deteriorated and it was safe for me to come home. So I did.”

John wasn’t a consulting detective, but as he watched Sherlock retell his tail it was alarmingly evident something was off. The story, the story of an entire year, was fat too short. And the way Sherlock practically froze up at the mention of his kidnapping?

“You’re not telling me something.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked away and he became fixated on the fridge door, shrugging his shoulders. “Am I not allowed any secrets?”

“Not when you keeping secrets is what got us here, no.”

Sherlock’s chair squeaked as it was pushed back and ran along the kitchen floor. “I’m sorry John. One secret. That is all I ask.”

John stared at the other man silently, considering. Wasn’t it that you weren’t meant to have secrets in a relationship? In a normal, healthy relationship, everything was meant to be out in the open, wasn’t it? But then this wasn’t a normal relationship; and Sherlock, with his almost deathly pallor and now trembling hands seemed anything but healthy.

“Alright.” John acquiesced with a small nod of his head.

And Sherlock sagged in relief as John rose too, reaching out to tug his partners hand.

And everything was fine.

And it was still all a lie, wasn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, this series is basically me playing around with the idea of what the mind can do to you. The first work was a dream, this references dreams and nightmares, and Sherlock's brain is betraying him in a slightly more sinister way. Things should start to become clearer in the next work :-) Thank you for reading!


End file.
